


Through The Fuckin' Windshield

by thlayli_rah



Series: The Boys from Letterkenny [1]
Category: Letterkenny (TV)
Genre: I could teach a course on Canadian phoenetics, I promise all of the colloquialisms are actually Canadian, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, References to Depression, Substance Abuse, after enough research you begin to discover that it is not random, any weird punctuation is because of slang, if you have ever heard a Canadian hick boy speak he will use both, nothing is misspelled or mistyped I have read this a million times, slang heavy, you and ya are NOT interchangeable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11895129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thlayli_rah/pseuds/thlayli_rah
Summary: It's clear Darry's been sitting on this fer a while; it takes a brush with the heat strokes to bring it out, however.Please leave comments! I love comments!





	1. The Heat Strokes

You’re haulin’ bales with your buddy the other day, and it’s so hot out that Satan himself’d be askin’ for a glass of water just to take the edge off. And sure as God’s got sandals this work has to be done, ‘cos this is the kind of heat that brings a thunderstorm that’ll rattle your teeth and toss your shutters around like a Niagara Falls card dealer, and there’s no way Wayne’s gonna let the barley drown and rot with a crop so fine you could drink it.  
He’s got one over each shoulder, heaving them from where the baler’s sitting out in the scorching hellfire, to the only moderately cooler shady relief of the barn. There’s still ‘bout twenty in the truck and they’ve been haulin’ for pert near an hour by this stage— Wayne hucks the bales into place and turns round just in time to see Darry heave a bale onto his shoulder and fold up like an Eddie Bauer lawn chair.

It’s not like Wayne’s never seen Darry faint before; he gets the jitters over roadkill, and one time Squirrelly Dan’s cousin Garett got ninth-grade handsy with a nail gun while putting up drywall and ended up with a centimetre of steel in his eye (fair enough on that one, though, ‘cos even that made Wayne feel a little slick around the edges).  
But there’s somethin’ different between watching your bud be 10-ply around some rodent mashed potatoes, and watchin’ him drop right in the dirt like God’s own hand had been feelin’ particularly vengeful that day.

Wayne shouts a “hey” and hoofs it to where Darry’s lyin’ in the dirt, his breath fast and shallow, his eyes glassy, but undeniably still open. He’s lookin’ every which way, tryin’ to focus on somethin’, doubtless, and he’s gone as pale as a skid’s ass— impressive for Darry, who’s already pasty as Elmer’s.  
‘Hey, you’re alright eh, Big Shoots,’ Wayne says, shucking his work gloves to wave them in Darry’s face. ‘C’mon then,’  
He’s no stranger to heat stroke— when they were ‘bout fifteen, he and Darry had the two-cent idea to bike on up to Sauble Beach on one of the hottest days of the year. Wayne had spit and toppled right off his bike, and the two of them had spent the next hour and a half in the shade waiting for somebody to drive by, because Darry’d been too soft to leave him and go find water.  
Darry’s gaze rolls a little past Wayne’s, and he mumbles, ‘Ma, I don’t wanna birthday this year,’ He turns half-over and spits in the hay.  
‘I’m ‘bout to take a fuckin’ migraine,’ Wayne sighs, and slides his hands underneath Daryl, to heft him up in a bridal carry; liftin’ him like he din’t weigh more’n a bale of barley. Darry’s onesie is soaked right through with sweat, like he just got out from a dip in the back pond, and he’s got the shakes so bad Wayne almost starts to get worried.  
He carries him back up to the house, kicks open the door, and hollers out for Katy. There’s no response, an’ he figures she’s probably out somewhere with the hockey dinks, so he hauls Darry up the stairs and into the bathroom, where he dumps him in the bathtub.  
‘We gon’ flood the yard for pond hockey,’ Daryl mumbles deludedly and Wayne sighs, prying his work boots off and casting them aside on the bathroom floor. He yanks the tub on, as cold as it’ll go, and starts undoing the front of Darry’s coveralls. He hesitates four snaps in.  
See your buddy’s the kind of no-class impolite hick who’d go commando on the hottest fuckin’ day of the summer just ‘cos he thinks it’s better to go au naturel and don’t count for the fact that Big Jim and the Twins are like to stick to the inside of your leg like a tongue to a flagpole in winter.  
But Wayne undoes the next button and spots the top of Darry’s looms, and continues undressing him. It’s more’n a job, ‘cos Dar’s gone full dead fish— which brings Wayne’s attention back up to Darry’s sweat soaked face.

‘Darry,’ He snaps, and gives him a little slap on the face. Darry’s eyes open, and for a second, an unfamiliar expression takes over his face. Or, least, it’s not familiar to Wayne. His sweaty mop of curls has stuck to his forehead, and he’s still got about as much colour as winter in Ontario— but for the first time, Wayne notices a slight unevenness in Darry’s upper lip.  
‘Wayne?’ He says it like it’s takin’ some serious effort.  
‘Aw well mornin’ sunshine,’ Wayne replies tonelessly.  
‘Somethin’ doesn’t feel right,’ Darry starts, before his eyes drop back in his head and he starts convulsing like he stuck his bird in the electric fence. Wayne heaves him out of the bathtub with difficulty, turns him on his side, the stirrings of panic in his stomach somewhere, not yet all the way to the surface.  
After ‘bout a minute, Darry settles down, his breathin’ heavy, like he just sprinted down the laneway.  
‘Oh fuck,’ Wayne heaves Darry up in his arms again. He’s soaked, an uncomfortable mixture of sweat and cold water, and drippin’ near ‘bout everywhere while Wayne carries him down the stairs and out the door, to the truck.  
There’s a minute’r two of hesitation ‘bout where to put him, before Wayne decides on bucklin’ him in the passenger seat. He cranks the windows down and puts the AC on full blast, tearin’ down the laneway at a speed that woulda made Katy get reared up.  
Darry’s head is hangin’ against his neck, he’s sitting in his boxers and undershirt; Wayne reaches over and makes sure the fan is blowin’ directly in Darry’s face. Darry’s eyes open slightly.

‘Where’s we goin’?’ He slurs.  
‘Takin’ ya to the hospital, Big Shoots.’  
‘Why?’  
‘Well I’ll tell ya what, I thought it might be a hoot.’ He looks over at Darry and starts a little, to find that he’s turned almost full-on to face Wayne, lookin’ at him intently.  
‘S’rude to stare, Daryl.’  
‘I don’t think I’ve ever loved nothin’ the way I love you, Wayne.’

Well if Wayne doesn’t pert near put the truck into the ditch. He throws a look over at Darry, who’s about as with it as most of the skids Wayne’s ever seen.  
‘Get the— Take a— Fuckin’ sort yourself out there Dar,’ Wayne fixes his face into a scowl and the rest of the five-minute drive to Letterkenny Memorial is conducted in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm including a legend of all the slang terms I use because it occurs to me that the theoretical some of you who are reading this may not be from midwestern Ontario, or know anybody who is. So, here's your key to deciphering a phrase:
> 
> Pert Near - hick slang for "pretty near"
> 
> Hucks/Hucking - in this context, it means "to throw" but it can also mean "spitting" in the traditional sense
> 
> Eddie Bauer - a True North company what makes the best damn lawn chairs
> 
> Ninth-grade handsy - think about a 14 year old boy handling boobs for the first time; it's not graceful
> 
> 10-ply - two-ply toilet paper is already really soft, so 10-ply would just be ridiculously soft, like wiping one's ass with silk
> 
> Spit - in this context it's used as slang for "vomit", as you'd also say "spit-up" but hicks shorten it to just plain old "spit"
> 
> Onesie - coveralls; typically you'd refer to them as such if you were making fun of your buddy for wearing them
> 
> Looms - short form of "fruit of the looms", just slang for any kind of underwear


	2. Darts in the Back Lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more atmosphere, please listen to this song, playing in Modean's during all this nonsense: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9ujF9s48Z8

Your best bud confessed his bein’ in love with you the other day. ‘Cept that ain’t no cheque you can cash ‘cos he was all but dead on the pavement from the heat strokes and you’d most like write it off to the kind of swelter you imagine must reign in the Devil’s asshole, ‘cept your bud had to go off and tack your name onto the end of it, so’s you knows it’s for sure about you; but it’s really not even worth thinkin’ about, ‘sides it’d just be inappropriate.

‘Get fucked,’ Wayne mutters.  
‘I’s a tellin ya’s,’ Squirrelly Dan gestures at them with his beer. ‘The doc done stick his hand up yer pooper like you’s was a cow.’  
‘Ya talkin’ from experience now, Dan?’ Darry grins.  
‘I ain’t never gotten no anal probin’ from no doc before, no sir, but my cousin’t—’  
‘Which one, Garett?’  
‘No, Jared’t— He told me it’s s’posed to be somethin’ you’s is to do’s on the regulars.’  
Darry’s face gets unnerved. ‘Wait, you’re sayin’ that he gets a hand up his bum on the regulars? Like, is it on his calendar?’  
‘There’s such a thing as too much butt talk and a fella oughtta be fuckin’ aware of it, that’s all I’m sayin’.’ Wayne snapped.  
‘Is that all yer sayin’?’  
‘S’all I’m sayin’.’  
They all take a shot. Two taps. Wayne stands from his seat.  
‘Gonna have a dart.’  
It’s humid enough that even the breeze is ‘bout as comforting as someone blowin’ smoke in your face. The back lot is all but empty save for Wayne’s pickup and Wayne; he lights his dart and burns almost half of it off in one drag. Darry hasn’t said shit. Most likely, he won’t, and—Wayne reasons —most likely he doesn’t remember in the first place. He was pretty well gone by the time they got to the hospital, and after two days of bed rest and non-negotiable fluids, he seemed more’r’less himself again. He said nothin’ about it and neither did Wayne.  
The back lot has seen many things; there’re long-reigning bloodstains from brawls (most of ‘em Wayne’s), a dent in the service door from where some candy-ass twirly bird from the city bounced his thick head off it after makin’ the mistake of tellin’ Wayne that Katy reminded him of a pornstar, and the discarded bent handle of a switchblade that a skid had once pulled on The Ginger—which now sat, imbedded, in the wall halfway up.

The back door opens and Darry’s face wrinkles as the wall of heat hits him.  
‘Shit, if that ain’t as unpleasant as swimmin’ in a pig den.’  
‘Boy howdy,’ Wayne replies.  
Darry settles in alongside him on the wall, an unlit dart danglin’ out the side of his mouth while he searches his pockets for his bic. Wayne gets tired of watching and lights it for him.  
‘Well danke-schoen,’ Darry nods and Wayne tucks the lighter back in his pocket. They smoke in amiable silence for a few moments; and then Darry lets his hand fall to his side, and the last two fingers on his left hand fall overtop Wayne’s. He doesn’t move them. Wayne jerks his head over.  
‘Can I help you?’  
Darry blinks back at him innocently. Their hands are still laid over one another. Wayne’s ire raises instantly and he jerks his away, pushing off the wall.  
‘Now, Darry, I wasn’t gonna say nothin’, but I feel like a fella oughtta be aware.’  
‘What’s the fuss?’  
‘You damn well know what; what’re you tryin’ to pull?’  
Darry stares back at him evenly, and when Wayne turns to go, Darry grabs him ‘round the bicep and pulls him back. Wayne’s beat wholesale of ass for a lot less—but it’s Darry, so when he turns back, and they’re far closer than they’ve ever been, he does nothin’. Wayne squints at Darry, but there’s somethin’ about bein’ so damn close to his face he could count all Dar’s freckles if he wanted to—that has the cuss die in his mouth. Instead, weakly, quietly, with Darry’s warm breath on his cheeks, he asks,  
‘Why didn’t you say nothin’?’  
Darry’s gaze flicks from Wayne’s mouth up to his eyes, and then back again.  
‘The less ya say now, the less ya hafta apologize fer later,’  
And then their lips meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this easing into everything you people are talking about? What's a slow-burn? Fuck that shit. Let's just go with the big guns right out the front gate.
> 
> Fewer slang terms this chapter, some repeats of ones you've encountered before if you're reading this whole thing in order (if you aren't, what the fuck is wrong with you, you animal, figure it out):
> 
> Darts = cigarettes


	3. Two Hicks in a Canoe

You’re driftin’ out in the back pond with your buddy the other day. Although now’s that you think about it, you’re not too sure if he’s just your buddy anymore. Seein’ as how he kissed ya and all. And not the way Squirrelly Dan kissed yer forehead after your folks died, or how ya kiss yer dog when she’s bein’ good. He kissed ya like you was high-school sweeties tucked way in the barn when yer folks weren’t home. And if there’s a word Wayne’d never used to describe Darry before, it was “cool”, but he’s bein’ real fuckin’ coy about this business, and Wayne’s gotta say he’s right about stumped over the whole damn thing so it’s not even worth thinkin’ about.  
Not a whole lot has been said since they got in the canoe—Wayne’s only comment had been, ‘Ya tip us in the pond, yer not comin’ back up,’. Darry sits, chainsmoking, blissfully unaware (or undisturbed) by Wayne’s disconcerted mood as he’s got a copy of The Road propped up against one knee. It’s startin’ to cool down, that’s for damn sure, as August packs it in and September starts to roll up its sleeves. It’s not past 6 in the mornin’, and the quiet sunrise makes it almost feel like the two of them’re the only people in Letterkenny. Wayne takes a sip of his coffee and stretches out carefully; he’s left his boots ashore, and his bare feet are still a little wet from walkin’ the canoe in.

‘Y’know, this young fella’s gonna need a lot of counsellin’ when this’s all said and done, I’ll tell ya,’ Darry remarks of the book.  
‘I don’t think that’s the point, then, Darry.’  
‘I’m not sayin’ it’s the point, I’m just sayin’, this young fella’s been through more’n yer average kid on the block.’  
They lapse back into quiet for a few moments. Darry suddenly pipes up again.  
‘Why’d you go and underline all these bits, here’n there?’  
‘Which bits?’  
Darry looks up from the book. ‘Well, lots of ‘em.’ He dictates, “On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world.”  
Wayne turns his gaze across the pond. ‘You ever think about how lousy we are with words, Dar? Just fuckin’ spittin’ ‘em out hilt’a’tilt like sunflower shells—an’ not even the salted ones.’  
‘He does some real fancy talkin’,’  
‘He does,’  
‘Real fancy,’  
‘D’you wanna know what, like that’s some Othello shit right there,’  
‘A real Shakespeare picture,’ Darry agrees. There’s a small silence. ‘I’m just sayin’ that it disrupts the flow if yer readin’ it fer the first time, s’all.’  
‘Which does?’  
‘The underlinin’,’  
‘Well I wasn’t exactly doin’ it fer you, now, Darry, was I? I was doin’ it fer me, and if I was you I wouldn’t be complainin’ over somethin’ that somebody else done let me borrow, ‘cos I’ve got fuckin’ manners.’   
Darry frowns down at the book and Wayne looks back out to the water. ‘If ya get it fuckin’ wet I’ll drag ya behind the tractor tied to yer onesie.’

They settle back into quiet again, Darry shoving the butt of his dart inside an old beer bottle, wedged in the stern of the canoe. Wayne watches him carefully for a few moments; the way his brow furrows slightly with the intensity of concentration—his one hand idly turning over his next dart, not yet lit. Wayne’s attention once again is drawn haphazardly to the unevenness of Darry’s upper lip, crooked as the laneway.  
He pops his feet up on Darry’s other knee; there’s no comment, Darry just lights his fourth smoke in a row without taking his eyes off the book. The canoe turns a slow, lackadaisical circle in the pond, and Darry rests his hand on Wayne’s foot, kneading the tough skin there more gently than Wayne held Stormy when she was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sap and that's all I have to say about this chapter


	4. The Photo

You’re sittin’ with your pals out front the produce stand the other day. You’re pert near softenin’ up so bad for a floppy-haired goof with more freckles’n brain cells, but somethin’ inside ya is almost right with it when it comes down to lookin’ at his face all lit up by the sun, while he’s blowin’ dandelion heads all over yer fuckin’ fields like some dough-brained kindergart’ner.

‘Why do they do that, d’you think?’  
‘Do whats?’  
The three of ‘em are stretched out, the mornin’s chores not yet settled into their muscles, watching as Stormy patters around, hunting for a place to take a shit.  
‘Well, I’d be thinkin’, seein’ how they go on an’ like, lick their own genitalia and such, they wouldn’t be quite so particulars on how or where they have a poop.’ Darry remarks. Wayne frowns at the dog, in thought.  
‘Wells I’s a sorta thoughts it’d be more that you’s has the options to take yer poops wherever ya’s wants.’ Squirrelly Dan offers.  
‘So you’re sayin’, is that, they just like bein’ able to go wherever, ‘cos of the freedom it provides.’  
‘I’d imagine so’s,’  
‘Wayne?’  
He gives a long hmmmmmm. ‘Well… I’d’a thought it was more like markin’ yer territory, ain’t it?’  
‘That’s what all the pageantry ‘round peein’s for.’  
‘S’pose so…’ Wayne continues frowning at the dog.  
Darry spits in the dirt decisively. ‘D’you wanna know what, I think if I was a dog, I’d probably poop in the same spot every day, just for consistency’s sake, y’know?’  
‘You’s only sayin’ that ‘cos you’ve been poopin’ in toilets like peoples for your whole life.’ Dan points out. Darry’s face contorts, as though he’s never considered the problem from that angle.  
‘Well, now, that is a good point,’  
Wayne turns his gaze from the shitting dog to Dan—barely a different sight. ‘Ok Dan, ok, alright Dan, ok—are you tryin’ to tell me that if you didn’t hafta poop in a toilet, you wouldn’t?’  
‘I thinks it’s only social constructs what’s been makin’ me poop in one spots my whole life, is all I’m sayin’, and maybe if I wasn’t to get judged for it, I might pursues my options, is all I mean.’  
‘I’m inclined to agree with ya, there, Dan.’ Darry nods.  
‘You’re animals, fuck, sort yourselves out,’ Wayne takes a swig from his beer and dumps the last quarter into the grass.  
‘Well’s ya gotta think that the cave peoples did it, didn’t they?’ Dan points out.  
‘We ain’t cave peoples,’ Wayne stands abruptly. ‘Sometimes ya make it real tough to be the only one here who was well brought up, fuck,’  
‘Get off the cross, we need the wood.’ Darry shoots and Wayne scowls.  
‘Nother beer then, Dar?’  
‘Couldn’t say no to such a sweet suggestion,’  
‘Nother beer then, Dan?’  
‘That’s a Texas-size 10-4.’  
‘Over’n’out then,’ Wayne strides up to the house. He’s just reached the kitchen when his back pocket buzzes. He retrieves his phone and the whole world goes under water.

The photo is as grainy as a tv with bunny ears, but that don’t mean you can’t make it out. Wayne’s own broad shoulders are unmistakable, and even in the dark you could tell it was Darry from the fuckin’ coveralls. They’re mashed up against the wall, their faces one single blur; Darry’s hand held ‘long the side of Wayne’s face—it covers their features, but nothin’ else. Show it to anyone in Letterkenny and they’d know in a second who it was.  
There’s a one-word caption from a number he doesn’t know: faggots

Wayne has fought a lot of guys before; he knows how to use his fists, he knows the best way to win is to strike first and without any indication. He’s the toughest guy in Letterkenny and he’s earned that title. He knows how to throw a punch, but even more so, he knows how to take one.  
This winds him more than a shot to the sternum ever has.

There’s no demand to accompany the picture; this prick, whoever the fuck they are, wasn’t asking for anything. They just want him to know. They want him to know at 8:23 on a Monday mornin’. Wayne stares at the picture and for the first time in a very long time he feels fear, sittin’ lodged in the back of his throat.  
‘Course see, he’s always known about Darry. They’ve all known about Darry, ‘cos how couldn’t you? He’s 10-ply as hell sometimes, awkward as shittin’ standing up, and used to go ‘round pantsing all the guys in gym class. S’far as Wayne knows, he never acted on it—it was slim pickin’s round Letterkenny for somebody of… the persuasion. So if Darry’s ever been with anybody—which Wayne genuinely ain’t sure whether or not he has —he’d’ve done it with some city fuck, most like.  
But Wayne don’t even know what he is, yet. He don’t even know whether he wants Darry in that way. But here’s this anonymous sack of dogshit, so spineless you’d have to prop them up with a broom, threatenin’ to tell Letterkenny something Wayne ain’t yet sure was even true.  
‘Ya look like yer gonna have a hernia,’  
Wayne’s head jerks up from his phone to where Darry stands, in the doorway of the kitchen. He opens his mouth, and shuts it again. Darry has that stupid grin on his face, kinda like a dog. Wayne’s suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to hit him.  
‘Well pitter patter,’ Darry jerks his head back and Wayne’s frown deepens.  
‘Are you fuckin’ high?’  
Darry’s grin falls a little. ‘What?’  
‘What’re you on about over there Big Shoots?’  
The smile is gone, Darry’s hands find his pockets. ‘Thought maybe you were waitin’ for me in here or somethin’, fuckin’ takin’ so long.’  
A muscle in Wayne’s jaw jumps.  
‘I took a fuckin’ leak you de-gen. Like I’d be on with toe-curlin’ when Dan’s out in the yard—you’re actin’ like some fuckin’ stray dog what’s got the heat.’  
‘Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout goin’ heels to Jesus or nothin’.’ And damn if Darry doesn’t look downright ashamed, starin’ at his feet and mumbling. ‘Thought maybe you were thinkin’ ‘bout sharin’ chapstick or somethin’.’  
There’s something unbearable about the way he says it, something that instantly puts the image in Wayne’s head, like some kinda girly Katherine Heigl motion picture— and he can figure what it’d be like to stand in the kitchen, with his back against the fridge, havin’ his hands all knotted up in Darry’s rusty curls.  
But the thought goes out like he’s spit it and he shoulders roughly past Daryl, shovin’ a beer in his hand as he does.  
‘Wish you weren’t so fuckin’ awkward, bud,’


	5. Don't Kiss Don't Tell

You’re runnin’ the dog ragged in the back half the other day. ‘Course while nobody’d ever say you were the easiest damn fella in the world to get on with, you have been ‘bout as agreeable as a cow what’s got backed up lately, so nobody’s really gonna mind one bit if you toss a stick with a mutt as opposed to wearin’ your poopy pants ‘round everyone else. ‘Course Katy’s been tryin’ to figure out what yellowjacket’s crawled on up your ass, but even she knows when to pump the breaks—and if Wayne’s bent as a busted hockey stick for near a week, well it must be somethin’ serious.  
Wayne’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and a tiny bit of cold sweat breaks on his neck as he pulls it out. It’s a text from McMurray, askin’ whether Wayne’s gonna organize the Jamboree. Compulsively, as he’s done for the past eight days whenever he looks at his phone, Wayne pulls up the text message of him and Darry and stares at it.  
It’s almost dishonourable, really, to look at the moment stamped so crudely into one frame, ‘cos that’s not what it was. Damn photo can’t catch the look in Darry’s doe-eyes, the feelin’ of his calloused hands on Wayne’s jaw, or the way Darry’s hot breath caught on Wayne’s cheeks. Every time he looks at it, it’s six-to-one, half dozen the other, whether he’ll feel livid or soft ‘bout the whole damn thing. It’s like doin’ math without all the numbers and it gives him a fuckin’ migraine.  
Stormy’s sittin’ impatiently at Wayne’s foot with the branch, and after a minute, he crouches down beside her and hefts her into his arms. She does not protest, but simply accepts the manhandling with an air of resigned patience. Wayne buries his face into her side and tries to breathe through the increasingly difficult hole spreading in his chest. He can still smell Darry’s boozy breath, mingled with darts, sweat, barnyard, Banana Boat sunscreen, and something beneath it all that was just Darry. And Wayne’s never been fruity, not a day in his life, but there’s undeniably somethin’ about Daryl that turns him soft.

‘Well if it ain’t Mr. Charisma,’  
‘Wells, nows, Katy, I do think’s we might wanna give Wayne’s a break, nows.’  
Wayne drops into his lawn chair and it creaks desperately beneath his weight. He begins the process of shucking his work-boots and socks, so that his bare feet can lie out in the grass.  
‘Obviously, there’s somethin’s that’s got’s him all in a fits, and I says we’re his friends, and we ought’s to be helpin’.’ Squirrelly Dan turns his avuncular gaze on Wayne. ‘So’s, Wayne’s, what’s yer troubles?’  
Wayne doesn’t look at any of them, just stares up the laneway. He hears Darry spit into the grass and wonders how nobody’s asked him what dead thing’s died up his ass. Maybe that’s ‘cos Darry always looks like you’ve asked him to do hard math in his head. Mosta the time, Darry’s got somethin’ on his mind, but that bein’ said, it don’t always make it worth hearin’ about. Wayne squints at the barn.  
‘I’d like to apologize for my behaviour, it ain’t appropriate, and ya done nothin’ to deserve it.’  
‘Forgiven,’ The three chorus instantly.  
‘Thank-you,’ Wayne replies curtly.  
‘You’re still not gonna tell us why, though,’ Katy comments.  
‘Hard no,’  
‘I thinks it’s probably gots to do’s with a girls,’  
Wayne chances a look over at them, and Darry’s ears’ve gone bright red; he’s got his gaze parked on his boots.  
‘Ya know Dan you really oughtta mind yer P’s and Q’s.’ Wayne says curtly.  
‘I wasn’t tryin’s to starts nothin’—’  
‘Well let’s keep ‘er that way,’ Wayne reaches behind Katy and retrieves a small, mottled-looking homemade brownie from atop a small mountain. For half a moment he makes eye contact with Darry for the first time all week, and then he drops his gaze to the ground again; those fuckin’ doe-eyes always lookin’ at him like he hung the goddamn sun.  
‘You’s always makes the best brownies Katy, and that’s what I’s appreciates about you,’ Dan says, and Katy doesn’t reply.  
‘Katy, man pays ya a compliment you thank ‘em,’ Wayne chides, and she jerks her head over to him  
‘Wh— oh, right— well,’  
‘S’rude to be on yer phone while sittin’ with folks, Katy.’ Wayne says through a mouthful of brownie.  
There’s a blaring of music as a familiar red Jeep comes tearin’ down the laneway. Before it even skids to a stop on the gravel, Riley is shouting over the windshield.

‘Oh look at this boys,’  
‘Just a couple’a dusters, boys,’  
‘Givin’ a whole new meaning to silky mitts, huh fellas?’  
Wayne pipes up from his relaxed position on the lawn chair.  
‘Better lay off the Johnny Red-Eye, don’t think ya can spare the brain cells between ya.’  
‘Katy-Kat, we heard somethin’ real greasy,’  
‘Real grease wheel grease, ferda,’  
Wayne’s not in the mood. ‘Take yer tank-tops and yer Tonka truck and kick rocks,’  
‘Ridin’ the pine, aren’t ya, boys?’  
‘Pine rides 24-7 days of the week,’  
‘Ya missed the rainbow parade by a month, boys,’  
Wayne stiffens; his head snaps over to Katy. Her phone is sitting in her lap, and the second their eyes meet, he understands.  
‘All wheels, no timing boys,’  
‘Which one’s the snipe?’  
‘Somebody’s gotta be the snipe, can’t both be dusters,’  
‘Who’s the broad, boys?’  
‘From the looks bud, I’d say onesie’s takin’ it up the rear,’  
Katy’s lounger bounces off the bumper of the Jeep, and the boys duck back into the car.  
‘Fuck off, get the fuck outta here,’

Wayne sits quite still, with only the slightest rise and fall from his shoulders, his hands resting flat on his knees. His gaze is fixed on the coupling of trees some two kilometres in the distance; Katy slowly walks over, and stops in front of him, her phone offered.  
‘It’s on the Ag Hall Facebook page,’ She says, but Wayne doesn’t need to look. He already knows what’s on there. Surest way of tellin’ everyone in Letterkenny at once. Only thing everybody in a small town keeps up with is the Ag Hall Facebook.  
Wayne stands abruptly and starts toward the house; a hand grabs his bicep and for a second the whole world smells like Banana Boat and Gus’n’Bru— but it’s Katy pulling him to a halt.  
She lowers her voice; not worth it when both Dan and Darry are so fuckin’ close, but Wayne can appreciate it. ‘You coulda just told me,’  
‘S’impolite to kiss’n’tell, Katy,’ He replies quietly, and leaves them where they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that are important to me: it is canon that Darry wears Banana Boat sunscreen instead of cologne and if that isn't the funniest shit you've ever heard you can get the fuck out of my face
> 
> Dusters - somebody who isn't very good at hockey, can also be used by hockey-players to describe non-hockey players in a condescending fashion
> 
> Silky Mitts - typically someone who can pull off impressive dangles on the ice, but that's not really what Riley and Jonesy are referencing, here
> 
> Johnny Red-Eye - slang for pot
> 
> Greasy - can be used to describe something that's below-the-belt, or shady
> 
> Ferda - shortened version of "for the boys", which becomes "fer da boys" and eventually "ferda"
> 
> Snipe - a gorgeous shot or a gorgeous girl


	6. Interplanetary

You’re out shoppin’ at the local mart the other day. And you can barely make heads’r’tails of Katy’s chickenscratch, and you’re not even sure it’s worth it once ya do, ‘cos she’s asked for some fuckin’ non-dairy atrocity called Rice Dreams. Least she didn’t forget to put All-Dressed chips on the list; yer standin’ in the aisle lookin’ fer Montreal steak-spice, ‘cos Katy was talkin’ about doin’ up her fancy potatoes this evenin’ and y’know she only ever does that on yer birthday so ya must look like somebody done shoved a brandin’ iron up yer colon. The silver linin’— if Wayne was the type of fella to believe in such a public-school of thought —is that he’s got more work done on the farm this past two weeks than if he was bein’ paid by the minute ‘cos it’s real easy to find things to occupy yer hands when yer not showin’ yer face ‘round town.  
There’s a blister on Wayne’s middle finger; he’s worn his work-gloves right through and he knows it’s gonna hurt so goddamn bad tomorrow when it pops; it’s not so common anymore to get those, his hands are ‘bout as calloused as his feet, and his feet are ‘bout as calloused as a cow’s hind shoe. He’s got caught up in starin’ at them, thinkin’ about Darry against his volition. Can’t near remember a time since he was fifteen years old that Darry spent a night at his own place, ‘stead of the spare room at Wayne’s— and then it had been ‘cos his Ma had gone and stuck her head in the oven and all Darry wanted was to be alone with his ghosts.  
‘Cept now it’s more like Wayne’s the one with the spooks, really.  
Hasn’t seen Darry in two weeks.

‘Wayne,’  
He looks up from his hands to see McMurray holdin’ a shopping cart. Half-cocked dink has milk bags in his basket ‘stead of just gettin’ it straight from the goddamn cow like a man.  
‘McMurray, how’re you now?’  
‘Good’n’you?’  
‘Not so bad,’ Wayne lies, ‘cos McMurray’s not even lookin’ him in the eye, he’s lookin’ a little to Wayne’s left.  
‘I hurd ‘bout the… I mean to say that I… Didn’t knew you were…’ McMurray starts and stops so many times he sounds like a busted Kenny Chesney record. ‘Well fuck Wayne,’  
Wayne blinks at him. ‘Well, I’m ‘bout to be off, then McMurray, good to see ya,’ He turns around, thinkin’ ‘bout the fact that— while he’s never been able to have a cozy conversation with McMurray —that was more awkward than walkin’ in on yer buddy pullin’ his horn. He’s most halfway down the aisle when he realizes he’s forgot the damn steak spice and turns. McMurray’s gone, and feelin’ more like a coward than he’s ever done in his life, Wayne tosses the spice in his basket.  
Bonnie’s replies to him are monosyllabic while she rings him through and Wayne can barely believe that he misses her uncomfortable overt advances.  
The skids holler at him as he walks out; doesn’t matter that they’ve got a fruit in their own tree— anything to take a dig at Wayne. Feels like when he first broke up with Angie. Nobody’d ever been allowed to get away with this much lip before— Wayne ends more conversations with a fist than with a period.  
‘Cept in this case, the only fella he’d feel like hittin’ is his own damn self.

He closes the truck door on “how’s life on rainbow road there Super Mario?” and flexes his hands slightly. It is time to get fuckin’ interplanetary.

There was more beer in the fridge than he’d thought; half a two-four and a bottle of Gus’n’Bru sittin’ under the kitchen sink. Nobody’s been ‘round to drink it. The beer was easy goin’ down, the house is dark as a skid’s future, and somewhere ‘long the way, Wayne ended up sittin’ on the kitchen floor, propped up against the fridge, the rye in his hand gettin’ lighter and lighter as the night goes on.  
The door opens and for half a click Wayne considers the amount of trouble he’ll be in when Katy finds him shot half out his mind. But it’s not Katy. It’s Darry.

‘And where’n the almighty universe have you been?’  
‘Fuckin’… this is it, bud.’  
‘So what’s stoppin’ ya from answerin’ your phone?’  
Wayne feels a little heartburn in the back of his his throat and chest. ‘Dunno where it is. Stopped lookin’ at it. Whole fuckin’ town’s got somethin’ to say to me, lately, figure they could just fuckin’ knock on the door, that’s what I thought.’  
‘Katy’s done been callin’ everybody lookin’ for ya.’  
Wayne frowns. ‘Why?’  
‘She hadta go into Toronto last-minute fer a modellin’ thing. Somethin’ ‘bout the metro-sexual dipshits in the metropolitan area bein’ all in one place and the photographer needed her bumpkin charm’r some shit.’ Darry takes in the empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter. ‘Well I sees you’ve discovered the time-tested and true, top-rated hick therapy,’  
‘S’workin’ fer me,’ Wayne mutters into the bottle.  
‘Oh I’d say so,’ Darry crouches down in front of Wayne and his nose wrinkles. ‘Je-sus your breath could stop a Mack truck right now,’  
‘Get off ‘er then,’ Wayne’s head feels heavy and muddled. If he had all his faculties gathered, he’d probably stop payin’ so much attention to Darry’s spiral curls and his wonky lip. As it is, he can’t stop himself from lookin’.  
‘You gotta be more’n 10-ply, goddamn it,’ Darry says, and Wayne feels heat in his hands.  
‘Fuck off,’  
‘Eloquent,’ Darry replies curtly. ‘You s’pectin’ me to feel sorry for ya, Wayne? ‘Cos I don’t.’  
‘I’m gonna give ya somethin’ to feel sorry ‘bout,’  
‘That’d be a fuckin’ change, wouldn’t it, from mopin’ ‘round like your bottom lip weighs a thousand pounds? Go’n then, pitter patter,’ Darry gives his own cheek a slap, taunting. ‘Do whatcha want, say whatcha gotta say, c’mon then,’  
‘Are you fuckin’ high bud?’  
‘C’mon, then, Wayne, it’s just the two’s of us, nobody’s gonna take pictures this time, ya can do whatcha want.’ Wayne realizes half a second late that Darry’s cryin’. But he don’t look sad— he looks more pissed than Wayne’s ever seen him. ‘Tell me I ruined yer life, Wayne. Unload that fuckin’ weight yer carryin’ all on me, get ‘er done.’  
Wayne reaches up to grab the counter, unsteadily risin’ to his feet, a shoulder and a bottle separating him from Darry’s face.  
‘If ya wanna blow smoke, go have a dart,’ He grunts, and sways drunkenly on his feet. Darry’s near as close to him as the first time they kissed, but there’s no romance in it.  
‘Yer actin’ like there was only you in that fuckin’ picture; I’ve been dealin’ with the same shit, too.’  
‘Well boo fuckin’ hoo big shootsie wootsie,’  
Darry’s hand is on his sternum and he gives a shove; Wayne stumbles against the fridge and it rattles from his weight.  
‘Oh ‘scuse me, Atlas, I didn’t fuckin’ realize that you had the globe on yer shoulders,’  
‘It ain’t the goddamn same and you know it,’ Wayne tries to take another drink from the bottle but Darry knocks it out of his hands. It falls to the floor; there’s too little left in it for any to spill out, regardless that it’s lyin’ sad on its side. The heat in Wayne’s hands grows. ‘If ya don’t back the fuck up there, Dar, I’m gonna put yer head in,’  
‘I’ve been dealin’ with this shit for years and you’ve not had it two goddamn months, and yer actin’ like a fuckin’ junkie.’  
‘I ain’t a skid,’ But the existence of “years” rattles around in Wayne’s head.  
Darry’s eyes are dark, tear tracks on his face, his jaw tense. ‘I love you, dipshit.’  
‘Don’t matter,’  
Darry takes a physical step back, like Wayne’s hit him.  
‘What?’  
‘It don’t fuckin’ matter, Darry.’  
‘Why the hell not? ‘Cos of what the fuckin’ town thinks?’  
‘People talk; best way to keep that from happenin’ is to not have anythin’ fer ‘em to talk about,’  
‘They already think yer—’  
Wayne’s punch comes from South and Darry’s head snaps back. He stumbles against the counter, a hand covering his face. To Wayne’s surprise, when Darry looks up, he doesn’t even look bothered. A small, twisted, broken smile shows on his face.  
‘I’m fuckin’ queer, Wayne. I’m a pipe-fitter, an uphill gardener, rear fuckin’ admiral, a bear-hunter, I’m bent—’  
‘Will ya cut it out, I fuckin’ get it,’  
‘I don’t think you do,’ Darry straightens up. ‘I don’t mind girls, Wayne, they’re alright. But they weren’t ever enough. The hell’m I gonna do about it here, though? Nobody ‘round here gave a shit so long as I chased a skirt every so often— but you knew I was soft.’  
‘Fuck, Dar, I didn’t care—’  
‘D’you wanna know what? It takes one to know one, Wayne.’  
‘To know what, Darry,’ He starts to reply but Wayne cuts him off. ‘I don’t even know what the hell I am and yer tryin’ to tell me that the kid who usedta get his horn caught in a button fly has the whereabouts more’n I do? Figure it out,’  
‘I think you gotta figure it out, bud, ‘cos I’ve already got things figured.’  
Wayne doesn’t let his glare down. ‘What’d ya mean when ya said years?’  
Darry sighs, exasperated. ‘Do I look like a fuckin’ speak’n’spell?’  
‘Well I knew ya usedta get semis when we wressled in the barn, but that’s not sayin’ much, ‘cos you get one when in the truck bouncin’ down unmade roads, too.’  
‘I’m not gonna say it ’til you ask me proper,’  
‘Yer a fuckin’ piece of work,’  
‘Pitter patter,’  
Wayne crosses his arms; he’s lookin’, now, at the soft dust of freckles across Darry’s nose and cheeks. He’s got a shiner comin’ up where Wayne hit him, but it don’t look too bad, and ‘sides he was bein’ a prick, so Wayne figures he can scoot past that one without havin’ to apologize.  
‘How long’ve you been in it fer me?’  
‘In what?’  
‘Oh well fer fuck's sakes— love, Darry, ya happy? Fuckin’ fruitier than loops, I’ll tell ya what.’ He mutters under his breath.  
Darry’s face scrunches up into an idiot grin and Wayne hates his heart for flutterin’ like a goddamn moth ‘round a lightbulb.  
‘You ‘member the time those hockey players hung my bike in a tree? An’ you went down to the arena and got your ass rolled for the first’n’only time?’  
‘You were fuckin’ fourteen, Dar,’  
Darry shrugs. ‘I ‘spect that’s ‘bout when I knew fer sure. Anyways, ya came’n found me sittin’ cryin’ like a kindergart’n baby by the back pond, ya were all cut up to shit—’  
‘Wasn’t much, really. They were pert near eighteen; went easy on me.’  
‘—and instead’a sayin’ somethin’ sweet, ya dumped me in the pond an’ told me I didn’t have shit to cry ‘bout.’  
‘Can’t ya pick a diff’rent memory?’  
Darry shakes his head and Wayne sighs.

This time, it’s a lot softer when Wayne goes in to kiss Darry. All he can taste is booze, but that’s his own damn fault— still, he can smell Darry’s hair. His hands find the sides of Darry’s face’n neck, and Darry’s hand rests on the small of Wayne’s back. It shouldn’t be shockin’ that kissin’ men’s real different from kissin’ girls— for starters, Darry’s almost near the same height, and Wayne’s never had that before, and secondly, his lips are chapped to shit. But his hair’s soft, and his breath is warm, and for a beat Wayne feels like he almost knows what he is.  
Then they part and the feelin’ passes.

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sweet on me, Wayne,’  
‘It’s impolite to kiss’n’tell, Darry,’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like because I mentioned Rice Dreams, I should also mention that it is canon that Katy asked for that once; it is also canon that Wayne invented what he called Holstein Dreams-- which was when he dumped a bucket of milk fresh from the cow all over Katy while she was sleeping.
> 
> I know the things I find important are not the same ones as you all probably do, but still
> 
> Interplanetary - an incredible way to describe getting hammered or shitfaced drunk
> 
> Pitter Patter - you honestly shouldn't be watching Letterkenny or reading this fic if you don't understand this one


	7. Jamboree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE listen to this song while you are reading this chapter; it's the one playing at the Jamboree: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdwnGG29Upw

Yer sweetie gives ya a hummer behind the barn the other day. ‘Course it’s all real twisted tempestuous territory to think about, ‘cos you’ve never really done any gay shit and this is pretty Shane McAnally— but ’s far as ya know, yer senses never lied to ya before, and sure as Inuits live in igloos there’s spunk in yer trunk, so ya can’t really say ya didn’t enjoy yerself, no matter what crisis of conscience ya got.  
‘Sure was somethin’, Dar,’  
‘Always had a skilled hand at wranglin’ vermin,’ He grins.  
Wayne lights a dart and hands it off to Darry, the two of them sittin’ on a couple’a milk crates, watchin’ the overcast clouds roll over the fields.  
‘Those sure are pretty,’ Darry comments, and Wayne grunts.  
‘Just 10-ply, Big Shoots,’ Wayne mutters.  
‘S’rude thing to say to the guy who just made ya cream yer corn there,’  
Wayne drags a bit of his dart and squints at the sky.  
‘S’gonna rain,’  
‘Ain’t gonna,’ Darry contradicts. ‘Those’re altocumulus, they are.’  
‘How’s the fuck do you know what kinds a clouds they are?’  
‘Internet,’ He points with his two fingers, his dart fixed neatly between them. ‘You’d be lookin’ fer cumulonimbus, that’s what carries water,’  
‘Well they all carry water, Dar, that’s what clouds are fer.’ Wayne sniffs. ‘Sides, I always thought it was those cirrowhatis what causes rain,’  
‘Cirrocumulus, they’re too high up,’  
‘Well now yer just fuckin’ with me; all clouds is in the air, Darry.’  
‘Am not, they gotta be lower in the troposphere to let the rain go,’  
‘D’you wanna know what, Dar, I think yer misusin’ the internet,’  
‘Why do you say that?’  
‘Well, ya know that they’ve got porn on there, right?’

Both of them giggle like a kid with the funnypages and Wayne stretches his legs out.  
‘Jamboree’s this Tuesday,’  
Darry doesn’t reply, waiting patiently. Wayne looks at him out the side of his eye.  
‘Y’wanna go?’  
‘Is that how y’asked Angie?’  
‘Well— fuck— well— see here—’ Wayne stops and takes a short sigh through his nose. ‘You ain’t exactly Angie, are ya?’ He waits a beat and feels guilty. ‘Not that I’m complainin’ about it, persay.’ He sighs when Darry doesn’t say anything. ‘How’m I s’posed to go ‘bout this, then Big Shoots? I don’t know what I’m s’posed to do when my sweetie wears size nines.’  
‘Ten and a halfs,’ Darry corrects and Wayne sighs again.  
‘I’m fuckin’ serious. I don’t know if I’m s’posed to open doors fer you, let you win when we’re wresslin’, or start helpin’ ya off the porch.’  
Darry’s face twists as he considers.  
‘Well, I don’t suppose I’m really all that fussed about the doors and porches and such.’  
‘What a relief,’ Wayne deadpans.  
‘And if ya started lettin’ me win, I’d know in a heartbeat, ‘cos I haven’t beat you once, even when’s we were kids.’  
‘Am I allowed to fart in front of ya?’  
‘So long’s as I’ve got a free pass, I don’t give a damn.’  
‘Agreed.’ There’s a beat. ‘So whatcha want, then, Dar?’  
‘Can’t rightly say, I’ve never had a proper boyfriend before.’  
‘Pump the breaks, who said we’re fuckin’ boyfriends?’  
‘Didn’t you just?’  
‘Hardly. I’m sweet on ya, Darry, but I ain’t even been seen in public with you yet.’  
‘I guess that’d be a start, then, wouldn’t it?’  
‘S’pose so.’  
The temperature is slowly starting to drop, the wind rustling the tops of the fields. It smells like barn and Banana Boat and there’s somethin’ almost cozy ‘bout it all.

‘Alright, would ya mind accompanyin’ me to the Jamboree this Tuesday, Darry?’  
‘As yer sweetie?’  
‘Ain’t nothin’ to get excited about.’  
Darry’s perky grin fades ever so slightly, his voice softening a little. ‘Ya know, Wayne, we don’t have to. If yer not ready, it’s okay.’  
‘Well I wouldn’t have fuckin’ asked if I wasn’t ready, Big Shoots. Ever consider it from that angle?’  
‘Well alright then, settle down.’  
‘I’ll tell you to settle down, what tellin’ me to settle down.’ Wayne mutters.

Wayne’s not been to the Jamboree since Angie dumped him; he misses it like he’s sure Jivin’ Pete misses his left-nut. His other claim to fame in Letterkenny is bein’ ‘bout the best damn dancer anybody’s ever laid eyes on. Linin’ should be real easy, ‘cept for the occasions when there’s some de-gens from Up Country or a skid from Toronto or someplace grubby like that— and then you’d think it was fuckin’ algebra.  
When Wayne, Darry, and Katy walk through the doors of the Ag Hall, the night’s already well up and under way, and they’re in the middle of some good and true Great Big Sea number that Wayne’s not listened to in years. The folks huddled by the door and the refreshment table are huckin’ looks and whispers, and Wayne is suddenly not very sure where to put his feet.  
He doesn’t want his first dance with Darry to be halfway through, so he looks over at the two of them and asks if they want anything to drink. Katy wiggles a flask in his face, but Wayne knows that Darry’s hankering for a Puppers, so he scoots over to the stand and waits in line to order.

He spots Boots and The Ginger over against the far wall, a veritable force field of no-sir around them, and starts reconsidering whether his claim to fame is bein’ the Toughest Guy in Letterkenny, the Best Damn Dance Partner in Letterkenny, or the Biggest Fuckin’ Queer in Letterkenny.  
‘Why Wayne, it’s been a hot minute since you showed yer face around here,’  
He’s not.  
‘Glenn, how’re you now?  
‘I am de-lightful thank you for askin’, Wayne. And yerself?’  
‘Not so bad,’  
‘Well I see you’ve brought yer sweetie with you, if that ain’t the cutest thing since polka dots. What can I do ya for?’  
‘Two Puppers, please’n’thanks,’  
‘Comin’ right up.’

Wayne wonders if it’s gotta be like that. If he’d have to start poppin’ out his hip and talkin’ with a twang in order fer everybody to leave him be. He hands the beer to Darry, lost in thought. Maybe it’s the fact that everybody assumed he’d just go off an’ marry some nice country girl, pop out a few kids, and eventually get buried in the back lot like most people did ‘round here when they kicked the bucket— maybe that’s what’s got them all wound. He seems straight, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how little it fuckin’ means. Darry’s right. Girls are fine and well, and whenever Wayne thinks about what Angie did, his insides get all tight and sour— he knows none of that was hoke. So maybe you can like both. And maybe a whole lotta this bullshit doesn’t really matter. It’s not even worth thinkin’ ‘bout.

‘Darry, ya care to dance?’  
They’ve started playin’ Jason Isbell and Darry’s face looks frightened, despite all his big talk; but Wayne takes Darry’s calloused hand into his own, and the two of them find a spot a little West on the dance-floor. Darry’s got fair enough footwork, nothin’ fancy but nothin’ to fart at neither, but he lets Wayne lead, ‘cos he knows that’s where he’d be more comfortable.  
It starts off a little stiff, but Wayne knows Darry loves this tune— even if it is a little girly for his particular tastes —and soon they’re fit together, turnin’ a slow circle, Darry’s soft bass voice mixin’ pretty with Isbell’s tenor right close to Wayne’s ear.

Somebody taps Wayne on the shoulder. It’s that girl what’s from the Burning Bush who gave Darry a suck one time, and she looks fit to spit fire.  
‘Hi there Margaret,’ Darry says politely.  
‘What you’re doing is beyond reproach,’  
‘Good’n’you?’  
Wayne sighs.  
‘As a good Christian, I know that what you do in the privacy of your own home is beyond my control, and will be judged by God Himself, but for the two of you to sodomize one another in the middle of a pure gathering is something I cannot allow.’  
‘Take about twenty percent off ‘er, Margaret.’ Wayne says; people have started watching the small altercation.  
‘I’m so disappointed in you, Wayne. You’ve fallen so far; how can you sleep at night? What would your parents say? Do you think they’d be proud of you?’

They died suddenly; it wasn’t unusual, ‘round here, to hear ‘bout somebody’s folks or friends or siblings gettin’ mowed down on the road, their cars bucklin’ like tinfoil balls when a truck-full of plastered high-schoolers went tearin’ down the dirt. Most people couldn’t even talk, after somethin’ like that happened—Wayne included himself in that category. He stopped, after, but he thought about how many times he’n’Darry would have a few more than too many, then drive back home in Wayne’s old pickup. It could’a been him drivin’ that car. And Wayne thought about that every goddamn day.  
He makes eye contact with Katy, standin’ across the way. She gives a small nod.

‘No, Margaret, they wouldn’t. But you know what, seein’ as how they’re in the dirt, I don’t s’pose I hafta take their opinions too high in regards.’ She starts to say something else and Wayne leans close to her face— he towers over her, he doesn’t have to speak loudly to be heard. ‘D’you wanna know what, I’ll tell ya somethin’ else. If you’s was a man, Margaret, I’d have belted ya so hard cross the face by now you’d be bass-ackwards for the next year. But ya don’t hit girls. No matter how much you might wanna. Don’t ever say a fuckin’ word about my folks ever again, ya hear?’  
He looks back to Darry. ‘Where were we?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi, yes, okay, in rural areas of Canada there is a grotesque amount of drinking and driving because there is almost no way you're ever going to get stopped by the cops, because there are no fucking cops anywhere and that is horrifying
> 
> Shane McAnally - an unfortunately named gay country singer
> 
> Hoke - slang for fake that I'm really not sure exists anywhere other than Ontario
> 
> Hummer - a blow-job


	8. Datin'

Bit of a fuss gettin’ out the house the other day. Seems like the cow’s got the mastitis so’s you hadta call up the vet to take a look, and he’s ‘bout as sharp as a tire so that didn’t get on too quickly. Started ramblin’ about the AAFC regs like you give a care, an’ you had to explain that the only folks drinkin’ that milk is you an’ the other hicks who consume more dirt than a groundhog. Then yer spare parts cleaner busts down right in the middle, which means ya had to fix it usin’ dirty spare parts which yer pretty sure is the kind of irony Oscar Wilde was writin’ ‘bout half the time. Yer neighbour stops by to say hello, and that conversation takes pert near a year ‘cos he’s ‘bout as remarkable as a dial tone—until finally you get the chance to wash yer truck and yerself, though that last one was pretty dicey for a stretch.  
Wayne’s doin’ up the button on his sleeve when he near runs into Katy at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Cool your jets, big brother, where’re you headed?’  
‘Bowlin’ alley.’  
‘Oh! Can I come?’  
‘Hard no,’  
Katy frowns. ‘Why the hell not?’  
‘Cos I’m takin’ Darry,’  
Her frown disappears and is replaced by a smug grin. ‘A date?’  
‘Yes,’  
‘A real one?’  
‘Well, now, I’m curious Katy, what qualifies as a real date?’  
‘Well, ideally there’s dinner…’  
‘Check,’  
‘…some kind of activity…’  
‘Covered,’  
‘…and some toe curlin’.’  
Wayne frowns. Katy grins.  
‘Yer bein’ rude, Katy.’  
She sniffs. ‘Are you wearin’ cologne?’  
‘Well it’s not my natural musk what smells like Gap Dream, figure it out.’  
‘That’s perfume. It’s for girls.’  
‘Do I look like a fuckin’ girl to you, Katy? I don’t think I give two shits ‘bout what some suit who works for the swing band corporation what’s The Gap thinks. Yer genitals can’t smell. Darry likes it. I’m gonna wear it. End of discussion.’  
‘Somebody’s gonna make fun of you for it. You’re gonna get in a fight.’  
‘Wouldn’t be the first time. Now, if you’d excuse me, I’m gonna be late.’

Now typically Wayne’d be in fer somethin’ a little nicer than Pizza Delight if he was takin’ a girl, but he knows Darry’s got a soft spot for the French onion soup, and Wayne’s never said no to Sriracho-nachos, so that’s where they go. It’s not all too different from the eight hundred other times the two of them have eaten there, ‘cept for that ‘bout halfway through the meal Darry reaches across the table and uses his thumb to wipe sauce off Wayne’s cheek.

‘If’n you had to pick between findin’ ten-thousand spiders in yer attic, or a meth-addled racoon in yer basement, which’d you choose?’ Darry balls his napkin up and tosses it onto his plate.  
‘Well, I’ve already found a meth-addled possum ‘neath the porch before, and if hell didn’t cringe at the sight of that critter comin’ through the doors.’  
‘How’d you know it was meth?’  
‘It stole a bag from the skids, had it under the porch,’  
‘Hmm.’  
‘S’pose, then, knowin’ what I was in fer. Though, ‘course, a coon’s a whole ‘nother animal.’  
‘Sure is,’  
‘I don’t know what’s about them that I hates the most; maybe their tiny hands. They look too much like little kids with those tiny tiny hands, like they’d reach out and give yer balls a tug. I hate those little racoon kids. Fuck.’  
‘I like their little bandit strap,’ Darry says with a goofy grin. ‘Reminds me of the cartoons.’  
‘I’d venture there’s ‘bout ten thousand spiders in my attic already, seein’s how nothin’s up there ‘cept Dad’s old huntin’ gear and Ma’s collection of Reader’s Digests.’  
‘So’s not much of a pick, really?’  
‘I ain’t goin’ near a meth’d up raccoon, ‘less it’s with a .20 in my hand.’

The bill appears in front of them.  
‘What’re we at this time? I’m grabbin’ the tip, aren’t I?’ Darry hauls his wallet out.  
‘Well that’s in the normal swing of things, and this ain’t that, is it?’  
‘What’re you talkin’ about?’  
‘Well, if’s we were just havin’ dinner, then I’d let you grab the tip, ‘cos that’s the count. ‘Cept, we’re not just havin’ dinner. This is a date.’  
Darry’s eyes get a little dopey and Wayne frowns.  
‘Cut out the Care Bear Stare, or I’m gonna clip ya a good one,’ He forks out the cash and slides out from the booth.  
Darry’s wearin’ the shirt Katy got him for Christmas last year and a pair of jeans, but he’s still in his work boots, and they’re all covered in mud, which does a little to help Wayne’s tiny feeling of anxiety.

Darry’s better at bowling than Wayne, which is more’n just a matter of pride for him. There’s not too much he can say that about, so he’s pretty attached to the whole shebang. Darry bowls a 242 the first game and Wayne bowls a 180, which ain’t anythin’ to be shy about. The next game their competitiveness has waned, and it becomes about fuckin’ the other guy up as best ya can before he goes to take his shot; Darry right ‘bout loses a foot to a bowling ball after tasering Wayne on the back swing, and the two of them start a ruckus on their lane when Wayne starts tryin’ to heft Darry off his feet. Wayne’s ball ends up in the gutter and before he can do anythin’ to stop it, Darry plants the quickest little kiss on his lips, right there in front of everybody.  
He turns his head against his shoulder so nobody can see the grin he tries to fight off his face.  
There’re some comments, fer sure. Wayne can’t hear them over the radio and the bowlers and the sound of Darry’s nonsense, and that suits him just fine. The two of ‘em head out around midnight and Wayne lets Darry fiddle with the radio for all of two seconds before cuttin’ him off with ‘just ‘cos I’m sweet on ya, doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit ‘round while you fuck with my car,’. They head home.

The house is dark, which don’t mean much; Wayne’s not sure whether or not Katy’s around, but knowin’ her, probably not. The engine settles and the two of them sit in the truck for a moment, before Wayne looks at Darry, slightly pained.  
‘Just— kay. Y’wanna know what— kay. I don’t know how I feel about all the… intimates,’ Darry looks back at him, doe-eyed and attentive. ‘I’ve found I don’t mind the kissin’ so much, but I’m not quite sure I’m ready to… y’know…’  
‘Swallow gravy?’  
‘Well now you’ve gone and made it awkward.’  
Darry grins. ‘S’alright.’  
‘Is it now?’  
‘Course. I never ‘spected you to learn the French horn when you’ve been pluckin’ banjoes yer whole life. Not overnight, anyways.’  
‘So what now?’  
‘Well, s’far as I can recall, you didn’t object to hummers.’  
‘That’s a Texas-size 10-4.’  
‘And a little bit a kissin’ never hurt anybody.’  
‘Nobody I’d care to know, for sure.’  
‘So that’s about the lay of the farm, I’d say.’  
‘Alright then,’ Wayne allows himself a grin as Darry leans in. ‘Pitter patter,’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning of this chapter I throw around a lot of unnecessary farming jargon and I'm sorry for flexing like that; I just know a lot about mastitis ok
> 
> It is canon that Darry likes the small of Gap Dream and that is important


	9. One Hell of a Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wayne's theme for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJ5uRxWCb2g

You’re playin’ scrabble with your sister the other day. It’s comin’ down like cats’n’dogs outdoors, you’ve got every loose flap tied down so tight the whole house is like one of those mausoleums you never seen in real life, ‘cos if one shutter was open, it’d be liable to tear the whole roof off. Every crash of lightenin’ and thunder is tickin’ your dog off somethin’ awful, ‘cos even though she goes tough around any mangy scruff what tries to mount her from behind, she’s softer than a Pixar-movie marathon when the storms start goin’.

‘Pump the breaks, the fuck do you think you’re doin’ there?’  
‘Winning,’  
‘Ya can’t get a double fuckin’ word score with “charcuterie”, ya goddamn cheat,’ Wayne begins moving her letters off the board.  
‘Well why the hell not? It’s a word.’  
‘It’s fuckin’ French, and last time I checked, neither of us is fuckin’ French, now, are we Katy?’  
‘We’re French-Canadian,’  
‘Lest somebody in our family I don’t knows about has their sniffer up Celine Dion’s ass, we ain’t French-Canadian.’

A small, yet furious match begins over the pieces on the board, only to be interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. The entire house loses pressure like a goddamn airplane cabin and Stormy starts losin’ her mind. Wayne stomps to the front door and stops dead when he sees Darry leaning in the hall, soaked right to the skin, with his face all beat to shit.

‘Fuck bud, you’re bleedin’ like it’s your goddamn time of the month,’  
Darry squints at him through one eye; a large gash on his left eyebrow prevents him from opening the other. His nose is pumping furiously, and not for the first time Wayne considers what good it is that Darry’s coveralls are a dark colour, ‘cos otherwise he looks like a scene from Saw. He reaches out to Wayne and croaks, ‘Gimme a hand,’ and Wayne half-helps, half-carries him to the kitchen table. Katy has already busted out the booze and first aid, and Wayne wraps Darry in the blanket what usually sits on Stormy’s bed, and looks him over carefully.  
He’s shakin’ slightly, a combination of the cold and the battering, no doubt. But his gaze is fixed quite steadily on his hands, and his breathin’ is real slow and quiet.

‘The hell happened?’ Katy asks, and Darry doesn’t look up at her when he answers.  
‘Got roughed by a couple’a de-gens from up country when I was comin’ outta Modean’s.’

Wayne considers the state Darry’s in, the awkward way he’s hunched to one side. He’s not the world’s best fighter, that’s for damn sure, but he’s never known Darry to get his ass stomped this hard— especially when he’s not one to start a fight.

‘How many?’ He asks steadily, and Darry doesn’t answer. ‘Dar,’  
‘Dunno, hard to tell. Probably five’r’six.’  
Katy comprehends before Wayne does. ‘They jumped you,’  
Darry doesn’t nod. He doesn’t need to. He reaches across the table and drags the bottle of Gus’n’Bru across the wood, taking a hefty swig of it. He winces, either from the booze or the pain, Wayne can’t tell. A low noise is building itself inside his ears.

‘You walked here, from Modean’s? In the rain?’ Katy asks incredulously.  
‘No choice. They slashed my tires.’  
'Well at least we know your van's been through worse,'  
'Now's not the time, Katy-Kat,' Darry coughs raggedly.  
‘You need stitches,’ Katy examines the cut on his brow between two neatly manicured fingernails.  
‘Do ‘em here. Don’t wanna go to the hospital.’  
‘Think we’ve still got some steri-strips in the— Wayne?’  
Wayne is on his feet, rolling up his sleeves.  
‘Don't wait up,’

They are, unsurprisingly, still at Modean’s when Wayne pulls into the drive. He pert near drove his truck into the fuckin’ ditch twice now, on Darry’s account— the rain’s comin’ down like the second Flood. Most of the folks who got stuck inside the bar on account of the storm aren’t bothered one bit about havin’ nowhere to go— which is why when Wayne throws the door open, drenched right through his flannels, he causes more’n a bit of a stir.

‘Evenin’ Wayne, ohh, you may be soaked but let me tell ya, I’m the one who’s wet over here,’  
Wayne doesn’t even look at Gail. ‘Kay,’  
He takes two steps into the bar and spots them.  
‘Hey,’  
They look. The mixture of expressions is something to behold.  
‘Which one of you chickenshit in-breds had the fuckin’ two-cent idea to go 6-on-1 to throw hands with a fuckin’ stranger. Some knights of fuckin’ Camelot in this room, that’s for sure. I know I shouldn’t be holdin’ it against ya, ‘cos together you got about as many brain-cells as you got testicles— a nice clean null value of zero —but I’m gonna hold somethin’ against ya anyway, ‘cos I got somethin’ of a personal investment in the matter.’  
One of the de-gens cracks a grin.  
‘Oh yah? Was that your boyfriend we beat the piss out of?’  
Wayne looks at one of the de-gens, a burlish, bearded prick with crossed eyes, a bloody nose, and a split lip. A small, hot centre of pride flowers in a place Wayne had once tried to ignore.  
‘Was definitely my boyfriend who busted yer face open like that,’

The de-gens are on their feet and Gail’s voice raises.  
‘You best not be fightin’ in my bar, Wayne.’  
Wayne strides over to the side door and holds it open, gesturing with one hand to the six guys, still half-in, half-out of their seats. None of them move.  
‘Take a look at what you’re doing, man,’ One of them says. ‘You ain’t got the numbers.’  
‘Do I look like the kind of guy who gives a fuck about yer math? Now which one of ya is gonna take off yer matchin’ skirts an’ come face me one to one? Or are ya only bold when there’s five other dickless fellas to push in front?’

It is not his cleanest fight. Wayne can admit to himself that he’s lucky— the first two had been almost like offerings, it was like battin’ off pussywillows, for all the effort it’d taken. It had only taken one or two clean swings and they both dropped like sacks of potatoes. The next two are less easy; the rain is cold and Wayne starts seein’ red when he notices one of the guys wearin’ a college football ring that no doubt split the side of Darry’s forehead open. He’s not really fought in blind rage before— it’s an interesting experience. He takes a good crack to his own jaw, it rattles his teeth and sends white exploding behind his eyes, but when he gets the asshole with the ring by the back of his shirt, he knows he’s won.  
He lands two solid hits, and the guy starts wheezing, trying to heave on the ground, to no avail.  
‘Fuuh—acchh—fffffuck. Wh—what did you do?’  
‘I hit ya in yer liver,’ Wayne replies shortly, and then raises his gaze to the last two from Up Country. ‘You’re liable to piss blood tomorrow, but yer not dyin’.’  
‘Alright, man, fuck,’ It’s the guy Darry’d decked. Clearly not anxious to take another hit to the face this evening. ‘We get it, we’re done.’  
Wayne takes a step towards them; the rain has started to subside, ever so slightly.  
‘Ya got a dart?’  
The de-gen tosses Wayne his entire pack. Wayne gives him a nod and ducks back inside Modean’s— rainwater running in rivulets down his face. He’s greeted by terse silence. Not a single resident of Letterkenny looks him in the eye.


	10. Buck Hunters

You’re at the bar with your pals the other day. It’s been pert near a month since ya had the spine to set foot in the buildin’, but ya figure since the last time ya did it was to have a tilt with six guys what beat up yer sweetie, it’s about damn time ya do whatever the hell ya want. It’s fuckin’ frigid outdoors as October calls it quits and November applies for a position; Wayne’s not yet moved into turtleneck territory, but he’s gone to wearin’ proper flannels and every so often he puts one on what smells like Banana Boat.  
The four of them take their regular seats and each get a shot of Gus’n’Bru. Down the hatch. Tap twice. Wayne starts lookin’ fer someone to square up in Buck Hunter.  
He sits back in his chair and rests his arm over the back of Darry’s, takin’ in the scene.

‘Womanhood lost a tragic battle the day you started ridin’ backwards, Wayne. My cooch damn near played Taps,’  
Wayne squints at Gail. ‘Kay,’

He expected somethin’ more, really. Lotta the time it doesn’t feel like much’s changed between him’n’Darry. They still wressle in the barn, Wayne still always wins—‘cept nowadays he’s allowed to comment on Darry’s boners when he gets ‘em. Sometimes Darry’ll milk the cow and dump it down Wayne’s back, just to get a rise outta him. They still play euchre pert near every Thursday night with Katy and Squirrelly Dan, and Darry’s still as lousy a partner as ever. Darry still rips farts and names ‘em, and despite Wayne’s best efforts he hasn’t stopped huckin’ phlegm all the goddamn time. They both still light Roman Candles off at critters in the back bush. They still sit out front the produce stand after chorin’, sweaty and sore, with cold Puppers and top buttons undone.   
Wayne likes goin’ to the Jamboree more, now, ‘cos Darry’s quick on his feet and doesn’t get tired as fast as Angie usedta. He sucked Darry off fer the first time when they were skinny dippin’ in the back pond ‘fore they got interrupted by some water snakes— and it wasn’t near as bad as he thought it’d be. He never liked clams that much anyway.  
The two of them started sleepin’ in the same bed after Katy chewed them out fer always goin’ back and forth between the rooms. Darry hogs the blankets but Wayne doesn’t mind. He sings Kenny Chesney in the shower a couple octaves lower than it’s meant to be, but it’s real pretty to wake up to. There’s always yogurt cups in the fridge, now, and Darry’ll do a Timmies run whenever anybody so much as mentions coffee.  
Wayne gets him a secondhand guitar, since the neck of his old one busted in the cold last winter; sometimes Wayne, Katy, or Dan can coax Darry into doin’ Johnny Cash songs in the den at night, while they pass a bottle of Gus’n’Bru ‘round.  
He’ll reach up after huckin’ bales around and plant a sweaty, sincere kiss on Wayne’s cheek out of nowhere. He bought Wayne a new bundle of thick wool socks from Roots, and a pair of new work gloves on a whim.  
Wayne was never one for recreatin’ scenes from romantic-comedies but there’s somethin’ real nice about lyin’ in the bed of the truck pulled out in the thick of nowhere, foolin’ around and then starin’ up at the stars, Darry tucked ‘neath his arm.  
Katy goes so far as to tell him that he seems happier, which brings Wayne up short, ‘cos he never quite thought of himself as bein’ sad before.

‘I don’t think there’s a man alive what could stand toe-to-toe with John Wayne and the fact that yer tryin’ to say otherwise is makin’ me have a crisis of conscience ‘bout our friendship,’  
‘All’s I’m sayin’s is that I thinks Chuck Norris would take the belt if all hands was throwin’ hands.’  
‘He’d get belted is what ya mean to say,’ Darry points the top of his Puppers at Dan and Dan shakes his head. Before he can respond, Darry looks over at Wayne. ‘Reminds me, heard the Silver’s doin’ a showin’ of Rio Bravo this Friday night,’ He wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Wanna go?’  
Wayne takes a pull of his beer. ‘D’you wanna know what, yer ‘bout as high maintenance as my goddamn spare parts cleaner.’  
‘Well I’ll pay,’ He offers without a hint of irony in his voice. Wayne cracks a grin.

An anonymous voice hisses 'faggots' and Wayne’s up from his seat in a second.  
‘Now listen here,’ His nasal drawl cuts through the din of the bar and sets it silent. ‘if you mouth-breathers got any scruples over who’s the toughest guy in Letterkenny, then make up a nice fashionable line right here and I’ll be happy to help ya test the theory,’  
Unsurprisingly, no takers.  
‘Well then I’ll tell you what, I think we’re just about done here. Next person to say tickety-boo ‘bout me’r’Darry’s gonna get a mouthful of my fist and you ain’t even gonna see me attached to it, alright? Figure it out.’  
He swiftly returns to his seat, the bar only comfortable with heated murmuring. Darry’s curled hand brushes against the side of Wayne’s and he takes a sip of his beer.  
‘If ya try to hold my hand I’m liable to deck ya, Dar.’  
‘Aw, she’s bashful.’

It doesn’t always feel cozy, ‘specially when Wayne starts considerin’ how long Darry had been sittin’ on the feelings all by his singularness, but when he asks Darry ‘bout it, Darry tells him, ‘If ya spend all yer time watchin’ yer rearview, yer gonna crash the car’. He finishes that off by mooning Wayne, which starts up a wressle in the barn— which fer once ain’t a euphemism for somethin’.  
Squirrelly Dan tells Wayne that Professor Trisha from his Women Studies Group says that sexuality is fluid, and that labels don’t have to define ya if you don’t find them comfortin’. Wayne’s not too sure ‘bout any of that, ‘cos it sounds like shrink-talk and nobody Wayne’s ever known has bought into it— but he’s always been the sort to consider things in the here and now, so he supposes he won’t think about it all too hard.  
In his head, Darry’s Darry, and the rest just almost ain’t worth thinkin’ ‘bout.

‘Darry, y’wanna play Buck Hunter?’  
‘How much money didja bring?’  
Wayne checks his pockets. ‘Twenty bucks in toonies,’  
‘Pedestrian,’ Darry shakes his head. ‘What’re the stakes?’  
‘Same’s always, fifty bucks a game.’  
Darry shakes his head. ‘Loser gives the other a squeezer in the parkin’ lot?’  
‘That’s pretty fuckin’ gay, Darry,’  
Darry turns and gives him a crooked smile. ‘I can live with that,’  
Wayne considers him for a moment, before pushing up from his seat.  
‘Pitter patter,’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're done! Thank you so much for reading! This fic took more research than I’d care to admit. It took me about thirty hours in total— I actually sat and wrote for a solid nine hours in one day. I rewatched a fuckload of the episodes and consulted the web series a shameful number of times. I listened to a gross amount of country music and now I feel dirty.
> 
> I spent around two and a half weeks in a tiny little nobody town in midwestern Ontario every year during the summer, and I used to stay at a pig farm with these hicks who remind me to a frightening degree of the characters from Letterkenny. A lot of the slang comes from stuff I’ve heard from them. I’m sorry if there are some really regional colloquialisms in this that are hard to understand. Also the conversation about where you’d poop if you were a dog is something that I actually had with those same hicks. I know. Absurd.
> 
> I have a headcanon that Darry plays guitar and sings a lot of Johnny Cash. I just really needed to squeeze that in there somewhere.
> 
> The band Broken Social Scene is Jared Keeso’s favourite band, also they’re Canadian, so how could I not include them in the little soundtrack? 
> 
> You may have noticed that there is no porn in this fic; that’s actually done for a few reasons, namely 1. I find writing porn incredibly awkward and 2. This fic chronicles Darry and Wayne at the beginning of their relationship and I honestly don’t think that Wayne would make that transition overnight.
> 
> Stay tuned for another fic in this series, from Darry's perspective!
> 
> Tilt/Tilly - a fight
> 
> Pedestrian - almost like half-assed, can be interchangeable with "civilian" but only if you're in the right town
> 
> Squeezer - a hand-job


End file.
